The Lonely Prophet
by FallenNephilim
Summary: Daryl never thought much of himself. After all, how could he? He was useless. So that's why the dreams were never anything to him. They meant nothing . . . or so he thought.


Daryl Dixon was not a conceited man.

He was good with his crossbow, yeah, he knew that. He could hunt well, and survive in the wild for a long time if need be. But he never really thought about it much. Things like that just happened to be something he'd been born and raised to do. They were nothing special, really. But to Daryl, this also meant that _he_ was nothing special. He didn't have any unique talents or redeeming qualities – he wasn't smart and analytical like Glenn, or caring and wise like Dale, or a born leader like Rick. The most he could do was hunt, and in his eyes that wasn't enough.

So of course he didn't give the dreams a second thought. They were just dreams. It was odd, though, because before they came he always got a terrible headache, and the only way to bear it was to drink until he fell asleep or knock himself out with the stash of painkillers and other assorted drugs his brother had left behind. But then when he slept, of course, that's when the dreams came – vicious, vivid dreams that had him jolting awake in the middle of the night. And admittedly, they scared him sometimes. But it was okay, he told himself. They were just dreams.

Then they started coming true.

At first Daryl wrote it off as coincidence, because stuff like that just didn't happen. But as time went on the dreams became more and more frequent. He dreamt of the farm and the people they'd find there – the friends. He dreamt of the walkers in the barn before Glenn told them about it. He even dreamed of Sophia's fate . . .

_Sophia . . ._

Just another reason he was useless.

But he never told anyone about his dreams for fear of being looked upon as a lunatic, because while he _did_ have friends there in that group, most of them were still convinced that he was a psychotic hillbilly who just as soon as kill them all in their sleep as he'd breathe. More doubt on his part was definitely not needed. But if he wanted to be honest with himself, then he could not ignore the truth any longer and he knew it. Coincidence only occurred so often, and these dreams were definitely not coincidences.

However, Daryl didn't truly accept his dreams as the premonitions they were until that fateful day when _they _arrived.

Andrea saw them first, calling out from where she'd been watching atop the RV. Three figures on the edge of the farmland, emerging from the forest and approaching the house rapidly, but she couldn't tell if they were walkers or not. So Rick, Daryl, and Shane went out to get a closer look only to see that they were not, in fact, walkers. They were three guys – all of them looking to be in their early twenties – traveling together. And while at first Daryl was wary of them, he soon came to accept that they were harmless and sincere in their professions of innocence, even despite the fact that he could see the darkness surrounding them.

These were hard times. Everyone carried darkness in their hearts.

"Hey," the shortest one offered him a grin as they headed back toward the farm, "I'm Dean Winchester. This is my brother, Sam, and our – uh, our friend, Castiel."

Daryl nodded. "I'm Daryl – Daryl Dixon." He glanced at the one Dean had introduced as Castiel, eyes widening a bit as he saw the startling blue hue of his irises, and his odd attire. "Your friend is kinda weird."

Dean glanced back at Castiel, his grin widening. "Yeah, he's an odd one."

Castiel frowned at the shorter man a moment and Daryl smiled to himself, liking the laid-back teasing the three had developed amongst each other. The mood shattered, however, when Castiel's eyes suddenly fell on Daryl and he went rigid, his violent cerulean gaze hardening into slivers of icy blue. "You – what did you say your name was again?"

"Uh, Daryl Dixon." He replied, a bit creeped out. Why was this guy staring at him like that?

"Do you know what you are?" Castiel breathed.

Daryl stared, thoroughly confused. "What?"

"U-uh, pay no attention to him," Dean said suddenly. "Seriously, he's weird. Sam?"

Dean's younger brother nodded, catching onto whatever Dean had implied in his glance, and put an arm around Castiel's shoulder to steer him away. Still confused, Daryl glanced at Dean, but the eldest Winchester had slipped away to talk to Rick while his back had been turned, leaving Daryl to himself and his thoughts.

_Do you know what you are?_

Unbidden, a shudder coursed its way down Daryl's backbone, raising goose bumps along his arms. Something was wrong. Daryl didn't know why, but he felt as if Castiel knew something about him – something very important, and something that the two brothers – the Winchesters – wanted to keep Castiel from revealing.

But oh, Daryl would find out. After all, hunting was what he did best.

X X X

Even after the arrival of the Winchester's and their odd friend, life at the farm didn't really change much. However, what _did_ change was the atmosphere. It was admittedly a bit strained at first seeing that these new, and quite sudden, visitors had suddenly become lodgers, especially since it also seemed that they planned on staying for quite a while.

Though one could only assume that once they saw how the Winchester brothers and their friend busied themselves with setting up quite a permanent-looking campsite a few meters away from the RV.

To be honest, Daryl wasn't sure how he felt about that. The one named Castiel unnerved him, for it seemed as if the trench-coated man's vibrant blue eyes – steady and analytical to the point of creating a certain chilly aura about him – followed Daryl wherever he went. And even when he was out of the man's sight he still felt as if he was being watched.

It sent shivers down his spine.

"Daryl!"

Daryl turned at the call to see Glenn running toward him, baseball hat tipped awkwardly on his head and a sheepish expression on his face, and he sighed heavily. _What's that Chinaman done now?_

"Hey, Daryl – I uh, I was wondering if you've seen Andrea?"

Daryl blinked, unsure. He'd been expecting something different, like for Glenn to admit to breaking something, or to nearly setting something on fire – he was always doing stuff like that. Despite his intelligence, he was a very clumsy person. "Uh, I haven't seen her today. Sorry."

Glenn sighed. "Oh, well. Thanks."

Daryl nodded and watched him walk away, wondering absently why he was looking for Andrea. They never really spent time together, so Daryl had just assumed that they didn't get along well. Apparently he was wrong.

His train of thoughts was cut off quite suddenly as he felt an unearthly chill slither its way down his neck, sending goose bumps running down his arms. He turned slowly to see Castiel standing across the way, staring at him in that unwavering manner of his that creeped Daryl out to no end. They scrutinized each other a moment, neither making a move, before Daryl finally decided that he'd had enough. Striding up to the dark-haired man he gestured toward the woods outside of camp.

"Let's take a walk."

Castiel nodded, eyes never leaving Daryl's, and followed easily as the taller man lead him away from the farm to the thick forest that lay just outside. He had his crossbow slung over his shoulder, just in case they ran into trouble, and he kept glancing back to make sure Castiel was still following. Sure enough, though, the trench-coated man never lagged behind. He kept up with Daryl easily.

When they were a substantial distance away from the farm, Daryl stopped and turned to face Castiel. "Why do you keep starin' at me like that?"

Castiel didn't even blink. "I wanted to."

_Well then._

"I want you to stop."

"No."

Daryl scowled. "Why not?"

"I must protect you."

"Protect me?" He nearly scoffed. "I don't need no protectin', man. 'Specially not from some stuck up prick like you."

Castiel tilted his head to the side. "You really have no idea what you are, do you?"

Daryl ground his teeth together. "Stop sayin' that. I know exactly what I am, an' don't you try and tell me otherwise."

"You're a prophet."

Daryl went rigid, thoroughly caught off-guard. That hadn't been what he'd expected the man to say at all. In fact, he was so shocked by the sudden statement – and the fact that it made no sense whatsoever – that he had to take a few moments to regain his composure before he could even speak again. "A _what?_"

"A prophet." Castiel repeated; voice level, eyes unblinking. "You see what is to come to pass, and you can read the written Word."

"You're not makin' a lick of sense."

"Rest assured it will make sense soon enough." He stepped forward. "I am an angel of the Lord . . . well, a somewhat poor example of one, especially considering the current state of the world. But you – you're an anomaly. All the prophets were thought to have died out after the tragedy that created . . ." he gestured lamely around him, ". . . this."

"I don't understand." Daryl took a step away from the trench-coated man, more than a little paranoid. Was this guy psychotic, or what? Angel of the Lord, yeah right.

"I see you require proof." Castiel nodded. "So behold, prophet, and then accept your place."

A sudden flash of darkness engulfed them, and within it Daryl saw two great, black wings stretching out from the man – no, the _angel_ Castiel as he rose himself up to his full glory, dwarfing Daryl in his shadow. And for the first time in a long time, Daryl was terrified.

Then the darkness passed, and Castiel looked the same as before. "Well?" He prodded.

Daryl stared, shocked. How was he supposed to react to that? Should he fall on his knees? Back away slowly? He had no idea. All he knew was that lately it seemed that the world was intent on fucking with his perception of everything. He could very well have gone insane or something and was now currently suffering from a rash of hallucinations in a psych ward.

But no . . . everything was too real for that to be true.

"You're – you're not fuckin' with me, then?"

The angel shook his head. "I knew what you were the moment I saw you, Daryl Dixon. But tell me, have you had any visions yet?"

Daryl nodded as he remembered the dreams – or, more accurately, _nightmares_ – of the farm, and the barn, and Sophia. He'd even grudgingly started to accept that they were premonitions to a certain point, but now this man – this angel – was telling him that he was a prophet? Well, that was too much all at once. "Yeah, I've had a few."

"I see." The angel frowned. "Come, then. We must tell the others."

"What?" Daryl went rigid. "No, ya can't tell 'em! They hate me enough as is."

"Not the ones from _your_ group," Castiel corrected, "Sam and Dean, they know what I am and they've met prophets before. With their help we might be able to figure out how this came to be."

"How what came to be?"

"I told you, didn't I?" Castiel fixed his violent blue gaze on Daryl once more. "We previously thought all the prophets had died out. After all, once the angels abandoned the world to the Walkers, why would there be any need for any more prophets? Unless . . ." he trailed off, frowning.

"Unless what?" Daryl prodded.

The angel gave him an odd, half-smile. "Unless you were destined to save us."


End file.
